


Vanity

by FenVallas



Series: Tales of Elvhenan [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Elvhen Pantheon, Falon'Din's Massacre, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-07
Updated: 2015-07-07
Packaged: 2018-04-08 05:52:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4293183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FenVallas/pseuds/FenVallas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on the prompt "“Crystal twining through the trees, gold glittering from the temple doors. A city careening toward flame and calamity.” The story of Falon'Din's coup and attempt to amass followers and its affects on the Pantheon, Fen'Harel and Elvhenan at large. Multiple PoV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vanity

The twin doors at the end of the hallway slammed open in a flurry of magical energy that left the gentry staring wide-eyed like a halla caught in a ray of bright light. Wind howled from the gardens outside and rain pelted those unfortunate servants nearest the doors, who had dived out of the way and dropped platters of carefully arranged appetizers to the floor. In the wake of the uninvited guest, the room fell under a deathful hush, no intake of breath heard across the entire corridor, no shifting fabric drawing any attention from the figure at the end of the great vestibule.

The figure was wild, caked in mud and debris, the color of his hair and skin barely discernable, as if he had been pushed into a ditch filled with water. Only his eyes stood out upon his face, blue and fierce, daring any in the room to challenge his right to be there as he walked forward with a wet noise, trailing mud in his wake.

At the opposite end of the vestibule, two guards parted, exchanging glances as magic pulsed through the air, causing the very fabric of the temple itself to throb with energy. That alone identified him despite the tattered robes that clung to his form only because they were soaked and the smear of something dark and red that certainly wasn’t simply mud against his brow.

“I am going to see Mythal.” The man’s voice carried only because the gathered nobles were so very soundless; none dared to protest his right to see the goddess first, not even those who had been waiting for judgement since earliest light.

They watched as he walked toward the doors at the opposite end of the hall, listening to it bellow like some forlorn beast as it opened and he vanished into the corridor beyond. They shut behind him with a sense of finality, and in his wake life attempted to resume its pace. The gentry were somewhat shaken from his appearance, and even if their painted faces continued to smile a sense of disquiet had settled over them all.

Beyond the doors, the man pressed onward, his footfalls echoing down the long, narrow hallway. He grimaced, lips pulled back in a snarl, managing to keep himself upright by leaning against the wall and limping toward his destination. He smeared mud and blood upon the gilded walls, but it could be cleaned, right now his purpose was more important.

He stumbled into another open space, sending men and women in milky white robes scattering in his wake. Armor creaked and the figures at the side of the throne tensed, ready to spring into action if their Lady gave any indication that she wanted the man before her throne eradicated.

The woman rose to her feet, recognition shifting across her stricken features, and stepped forward to catch the man as he tumbled into her arms. Her immaculate robes and gown were soiled when she clutched him, lowering them both to the ground, his fingers digging into her shoulders, face deathlike beyond the grime.

“What happened?” she asked, voice soft but urgent as she pushed his bloodied and tangled hair from his face. “Who did this to you?”

The man’s intense blue eyes burned in his face and he grasped her wrist, tugging her forward so that she was close enough that he could whisper in her ear. “Falon’Din,” he managed, and then went limp in her arms.

 

* * *

 

He woke, aware of the weight of blankets upon him, his entire body tender and aching. Everything sounded loud, and the muffled muttering he could hear from nearby rattled about in his head, burning just between his eyes.

For a moment, he lied on his stomach face down on the mattress, listening to the indiscernible conversation, feeling the various pains in his body. Everything felt heavy, including his eyelids, but urgency thrummed at the back of his skull, so he pushed himself to his hands and knees and took a shaking breath.

He needed to _go back_ , to _defend_ them if he could. Falon’Din’s forces had already swept across the southwestern part of his holdings, and by now would be advancing north and east, like a plague that watered the land with the blood of those who refused to submit.

But first it was a necessity for him to find pants.

Fen’Harel fumbled with the blankets and then rolled off the bed, landing on his back, his head smacking the tiled floor. He cursed, pushing his aching body into a sitting position and taking a deep breath, pulling the blankets off the bed urgently when he heard the door click open.

It was a servant, Elgar’nan’s vallaslin trailing across her features, her bronze eyes wide as she looked at his face, and then down to his lap with no subtlety whatsoever. He shoved the blanket more firmly in his lap and felt his ears burn, struggling to his feet and wrapping the cloth about his waist. “I don’t suppose you have a pair of trousers?”

“The Lady instructed me not to give them to you if you asked,” the woman said, setting the tray she was carrying down on the bedside table. “She told me that if you had them, you would go off and get yourself killed.”

Narrowing his eyes, he sat back on the edge of the bad and glowered at the woman for a long moment before he looked toward the tray. It was a light meal, crackers, cakes, fruit…

“Tea?” He made a face, tempted to knock the tray onto the floor, but that would be far too much like a tantrum. “I don’t have time for this nonsense! My people are in danger! There is an urgency here, and I do not have time to play tea party with Mythal and Elgar’nan!”

The servant looked taken aback, staring at him as if he had just told her that her brother had grown a second head or that the sky was about to change color. Perhaps she was not used to the Creators acting in such a manner in front of their servants, not while addressing them at the least. Perhaps it was simply odd to see one of the beings worshiped as divine furious and covered with nothing but a bed sheet.

“I will leave with nothing but this sheet and find pants on my own if I have to,” he threatened. “I will march back to my people in the buff if no one in this entire temple will give me pants.”

“Don’t be so dramatic.” Fen’Harel’s eyes were drawn automatically to the door at the sound of the voice, settling not on the face of the man who leaned against the doorframe but the trousers in his hand. “I’ve brought these to you, but only if you promise to behave.”

Fen’Harel glanced between the man and the pants, judging how likely it would be that he would escape with them before he was caught, but quickly sighed and nodded his head. It was neither Elgar’nan nor Mythal standing in the doorway which inevitably meant the situation had grown more serious since he had lost consciousness.

Anxiety sat like a stone in his stomach and he barely noticed as the servant departed from the room, shutting the door behind her. He was left alone with the other man, who looked at him with an intense blue stare for a moment before throwing the pants at his face.

“You know, you could have just gone through the Eluvian to _one of us_ instead of running across the countryside through what is now a _war zone_ on some kind of hare-brained suicide mission.” His tone was light, but it was more chiding for it. “You’ve been out for almost an entire day, but at least that gave Mythal time to call us here instead of risking you flying off the handle again while half-dead.”

“I… I had to seal off my temple to protect the people within. I recalled many of the workers from the countryside and sheltered them there,” he fumbled with the pants, dropping the sheet and turning around to pull them up. “Running across the realm was the fastest way I could think of to reach Mythal without endangering my people or leading more of his forces to other lands.”

“Try telling that to Dirthamen,” June snorted and tossed another piece of fabric at him. “He’s demanding an **_investigation_** , of course. He says you have no “ _proof”_ it’s Falon’Din, that your rivalry with him alone is enough of a reason to doubt your words.”

“He sowed death and destruction in his wake when my people refused to supplicate themselves.” There was no hurry to his voice as he pulled the robe onto his shoulders and quickly fastened it with a wave of his hand, the sash tying itself. Something chilly had slipped into his heart, his jaw tightening with each new piece of information revealed to him. “The few survivors that made it to my temple in time to warn me told me that much, and even if they had not I saw him, riding upon a halla, wearing the blood of my people upon his face like war paint.”

“I actually worry about what’s going to happen once your testimony is heard by the others.” June watched him, standing when he piled his hair high upon his head and restrained it with another wave of his hand

“If they do not act, I will go on my own,” Fen’Harel said, catching sight of his reflection in the mirror on the corner, touching the bandage held to his skin with magic adhesive. “My wounds should make enough of a statement to convince them, however.”

Magic and blade alone could not cause him lasting harm.

“I hope you know what you’re doing, Fen’Harel,” June’s hands fell upon his shoulder, a show of solidarity that he had not entirely expected. “Because I won’t abandon your land to that pretty boy, but I sure hope it doesn’t turn out to be us against the world. I’m not liking our odds.”

“June,” Fen’Harel said with an easy smile, looking back into his friend’s eyes, “when have I ever lost when the odds are stacked against me? Things only seem to go poorly for me when they’re overwhelmingly in my favor.”

He only wished he felt more certain beyond the ice in his heart and the memory of the ravaged landside.

 

* * *

 

Fen’Harel looked as though he had narrowly won a fight with a varterral, patched together by Sylaise and his own willpower. June honestly wasn’t surprised that he was still standing, and that he was fiery enough to approach the others while he still had a massive bandage adhered to his forehead. He approached his problems with a stubborn determination seconded only to his focused passion and had done well the first time he’d seen a battlefield, though June had feared for his life due to his recklessness.

But there was something inside of Fen’Harel that failed to die or submit, something that Mythal had amplified the moment she’d seen fit to Raise him. He wasn’t even certain Fen realized it himself, actually. The man was focused on the applications of magic and upon improving the lives of his people, upon broad-sweeping ideals like “equality” and “self-determination” and their application to everyday life. When it came to understanding himself, he was truly absolutely useless.

So June wasn’t particularly surprised that his young and impulsive friend was about to jump from the varterral’s nest into the maw of a dragon, just slightly concerned what the results would be. Would he have to pick Wolf out of the dragon’s teeth?

He hoped not.

Following along, June watched as Fen’Harel marched toward the council chambers. He could hear the arguing he’d left behind as they grew closer, Elgar’nan’s voice (unsurprisingly) echoing down the corridor. Fen’Harel froze for a moment, seeming to listen, and then walked forward, bursting through the double doors with his usual embellishment.

No one could deny he had a sense of style.

“Recovered already?” Dirthamen arched his eyebrows high and looked genuinely surprised, though June wasn’t certain how much of his reaction was an act. “Fen’Harel, you truly are a resilient man.”

“Are you involved in this?” Fen’Harel asked, cutting straight to the chase, wasting no time with politics; June saw Sylaise’s lips tighten from the corner of his eye.

“Involved with your speculated civil war, Fen’Harel?” Offense curled through the man’s voice, and if June hadn’t been gifted with generous self-control, he would have punched the expression from the smug bastard’s face.

“I didn’t get like this because I tripped down a flight of stairs.” Fen’Harel stepped forward, his eyes blazing with the same cold light June had seen upon the battlefield when faced with the atrocities of war. “He was there, Dirthamen. He was there, and he ran when I saw him, like a coward.”

“If it helps, I believe him,” June spoke up, seeing something flash in the depths of Dirthamen’s eyes, something that didn’t escape Fen’Harel’s attention from the way his lips pulled up into a facsimile of a snarl. “We all know Fen’Harel is among the youngest of our rank, but I have no reason to believe he would make something like this up out of petty spite.”

“He cares for his people fiercely,” Sylaise’s voice, seldom heard, drew the attention of eight pairs of eyes. “If we are to decide whether or not there is veracity to Fen’Harel’s claim, I must agree with my Bonded.”

“But what could his motivation be?” Dirthamen seemed to plead, leaning forward in his seat, his hands pressing flat against the surface of the table. “What possible **_reason_** could he have?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Elgar’nan’s voice drew the attention of the room, his voice deep and authoritative. “His motivation is pointless. He is my son, but he has crossed a boundary that none should cross. He has raised his hand in aggression against one of our own.”

June had to agree. Their enemy should be The Others, The Dissenters, anarchists who claimed every one of The People had the potential to rise to the ranks of godhood. They didn’t understand the distinction, that the Creators really were tethered to the Beyond in a way none else could imagine. The Others had achieved their power through wicked means, and even if their ideas were “fascinating”, as Fen’Harel said, their method made all of the arguments futile.

“We will go to him,” Mythal said, reclining in her seat, her eyes golden and dangerous, a dragon pushed too far and too hard. “We will put down his foolish ideas.” Her eyes slid to Dirthamen, who was pale and drawn, visibly furious. “Do not worry. We will attempt to reason with him, first. I do not relish using unnecessary force.”

“I’m certain,” Dirthamen said, his voice tight, and for a moment even June sympathized with him – if the entire Pantheon turned against Sylaise, he wasn’t convinced he’d be as cool and collected.

“Then it’s settled,” Andruil drawled from her seat. “We go and we put him down, like he deserves for such disgusting seditious behavior.” Her eyes, bright and sharp as always, slid over to Fen’Harel. “I would have expected this behavior from you, Cub. I guess you can still surprise me after all.”

“What can I say?” Fen’Harel spread his hands wide and smiled, though there was absolutely no warmth in it at all. “I’m just _full_ of surprises.”

June felt tension spark between them, but Fen’Harel turned away, something he might not have done in his youth. Sometimes, it was difficult to remember that just because he dressed in fine furs and displayed himself a certain way didn’t mean that he was a vapid summer day. Still waters ran deep, but rapids…

“When do we leave?” Ghilan’nain dispersed the tension by being practical, reaching a hand out and brushing it alongside his sister-through-bond’s arm. “Not now, surely?”

“Do you wish to waste more time?” Fen’Harel spun on her, his eyes flashing. “I arrived here stained in blood because he killed so many of _my_ people! How many more will be lost while you dispute when “the best time to act” is?”

“This is not something that can be done in haste—“ Dirthamen began to say, but Fen’Harel turned on him, and June saw the barely restrained rage contained in his gaze.

“Don’t.” Fen’Harel pointed a single finger in Dirthamen’s direction, move emphatically. “This is _exactly_ the time for haste. Or are you telling me you would let our people die simply to protect Falon’Din?”

The two stared at one another, eyes locked, before Dirthamen acquiesced, breathing out a long breath. “You’re right,” he said at last, and June couldn’t help but feel just a little bit self-satisfied at seeing The Keeper of Secrets laid low. “This time, at the very least.”

Fen’Harel didn’t seem to share his sentiment. In fact, he looked stunned and simply turned away from Dirthamen, who continued to stare at him with a strange expression on his face long after everyone had turned their attention to Mythal.

“It is late,” she said. “We will leave together on the morrow. Wear your armor. I do not expect this to go smoothly.”

June saw Fen’Harel was dissatisfied, but also realized his friend would know this was the best he could have expected.


End file.
